


These Problems Aside

by Psyent1st



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Blind Character, Gen, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason is a Good Friend, Migraine, Not Shippy, POV Outsider, Swearing, TW: Blood, a light stabbing, jason needs a friend, poor decisions were made, so I made him one, systemic ableism, though you can ship them if you want to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-11-27 23:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20956781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psyent1st/pseuds/Psyent1st
Summary: Jason meets an overly-friendly stranger who seems to have no common-sense fear of the Red Hood. But because he's currently bleeding into his combat boots, maybe that's not a bad thing?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "King and Lionheart," by Of Monsters and Men.
> 
> The concept for this piece came from the question how would Red Hood appear to an outsider?"

It was a cool October evening in Gotham, as October evenings in the city often were. There was a breeze blowing in from the bay, humid with the promise of fog, and Tristan idly wished it were Sunday instead of Saturday, so there would be a chance school would be delayed the next morning. Thumping bass and cheering filtered through to him from the club he’d just left, and he smiled, bobbing his head a little in time to the beat. 

Going to see Flightless Eagles (a local alt-rock band) had been well worth it, but he’d just needed some air. Standing in a crowd of tipsy people who were getting drunker by the second could get a bit claustrophobic, especially with the smells that tended to accompany it. And, if he were being perfectly honest with himself, he was not as sober as he was letting himself believe. Switching his white cane to his other hand, he took a swig from his bottle of water, hoping it might stave off any future hangover. The music from the club rumbled through his chest, and someone laughed raucously across the street. Someone also was smoking a cigarette, and he crinkled his nose against the smell. Hopefully the smoke wasn’t coming from inside the club.

Tristan zipped up his hoodie all the way and debated going back inside. It was getting late, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get an Uber at this time. Probably. They were usually pretty good about picking him up. He held his phone to his ear and the robotic voice told him it was 1:04am. Later than he thought. Time flies when listening to good music.

Suddenly there was the sound of heavy boots hitting the concrete behind him, and Tristan turned just as someone solid stumbled into him. 

“Whoa!” He threw his hands up instinctively to steady the person, dropping his water bottle in the process.

“Sorry,” the person grated, a male voice that sounded mechanically distorted somehow. “Bad landing.” He made to push past Tristan, leather rustling as he moved.

“Wait!” Tristan turned after the man, feeling the slickness on his fingers from where he’d made contact with the other man’s shirt. There was a pause in the footsteps, letting Tristan know he’d at least hesitated. “Are you alright?” He rubbed his fingers together slowly. “Are you…are you bleeding?” 

He thought he heard a laugh, again with the weird distortion. “I’m fine. Thanks for the concern.” 

Tristan reached out and missed completely, meeting nothing but empty air. “You want me to call anyone? Because this is definitely blood on my fingers.” 

“Nope, I’m—” a sharp intake of breath, “I’m okay. That’s not my blood.” His voice sounded a little more strained now. 

Tristan moved in closer, until he brushed the man’s sleeve with his fingertips. It probably wasn’t the smartest move, to get closer to a blood-soaked stranger on the street, but he had a couple of beers sloshing around in him and the guy was hurt. “Leather jacket, distorted voice…are you one of the vigilantes? Uh…Red Hood?”

“Yeah, that’s me. What do you need?”

Yeah he definitely sounded like he was gritting his teeth. Hopefully not in annoyance. “Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” It was a relief to hear this was one of the Bats. Otherwise, he would be extremely concerned about a stranger running around covered in _someone else’s blood_. 

Not that that wasn’t still concerning.

With a rustle of fabric, the Red Hood turned to go. He hissed in pain and his step faltered. Tristan reached out and managed to grab his arm. “Okay no, you are not okay. You’re limping.”

They both froze at the sound of the club door swinging open behind them, with the accompanying sounds of excited drunk partiers. The Flightless Eagles audience was about to swarm onto the street, and Tristan got the feeling the Red Hood wouldn’t want to stick around for a bunch of tipsy music fans to stagger into him. 

Fueled by a moment of temporary insanity, Tristan grabbed the vigilante’s arm and looped it over his shoulder. “Come on,” he muttered, cutting off a metallic splutter, “you can pretend you’re guiding me.”

Thankfully, Red Hood didn’t argue, though Tristan thought he heard a muffled swear or four from the helmet. “Just to the end of the block.”

“Fine.” The Red Hood didn’t put all his weight on Tristan, seemed to be restraining himself from leaning on him at all, but he was definitely limping on his right leg. He was a big guy, taller than Tristan and built like a tank. He smelled like sweat and cigarette smoke, with something sharper mixed in, acrid and smoky. Tristan uncomfortably remembered the Red Hood was the one who regularly used guns. Maybe it was gun smoke he was smelling. “Don’t you have people you can call for this sort of thing? Thought you usually ran with Batman.”

“I do _not_,” snapped the Red Hood. “I don’t _fucking_ work with him.”

“Okay, sorry I asked.” A few more steps, the sounds of the emptying concert venue getting louder behind them. “But you have someone to help you out, right? Or do you need a hospital?”

“Do I look like I need a hospital?”

“I dunno, dude,” Tristan quipped. “But you’re covered in blood and limping. Plus, unless I’m mistaken, you totally botched your landing back there. That doesn’t seem normal for you guys.” 

Red Hood let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a restrained laugh. “I’ve had worse than this. Just m’leg.”

“Oh is that all,” he said dryly. “You sure you don’t need to get in touch with anyone?”

“No,” Hood grated. “So stop asking. Don’t even need your help. Anyone ever tell you it’s dangerous to talk to strangers?” 

“Probably the same people who told you to keep walking on an injured leg.” Tristan was horrified the moment he said it. Had he seriously just sassed the Red Hood? The scourge of the Gotham underground? Who was most likely armed?

To his surprise (and immense relief) there was a definite laugh from Hood. “You talk to every vigilante like that or am I just lucky?” 

“Caught me on a good day,” Tristan grinned. “Bad day for you, it would seem.” 

Sudden laughter, loud in the late night quiet, echoed from across the street, and Hood ducked away, shifting his body closer to Tristan’s to avoid being spotted by the laughing civilians. Tristan, thrown slightly off balance by Red Hood’s motion, focused on his footsteps. Though he had told Hood to pretend to guide him, he actually was relying on the other man not to lead him into a pole. He had been to this street before, but wasn’t confident in his ability to remember and avoid any potential trip hazards, especially not while just a little tipsy. He concentrated on making sure his feet weren’t on an uneven surface before setting them down, then realized he might be slightly overcorrecting in how carefully he was walking and aimed for a more natural stroll.

Beside him, Hood limped a little heavier on his right leg. What a pair they made, slogging along like a metronome half a beat off. 

“I’m Tristan, by the way,” Tristan offered, thinking maybe having his name might make Red Hood a bit more amenable to him. 

Hood gave a grunt in acknowledgement, one that may have signified disinterest, or may have been a result of the pain in his bum leg. For once, Tristan didn’t feel like he was at a slight disadvantage by being unable to make out facial expressions, since Hood characteristically wore a, well, hood. Or helmet, apparently. 

“What happened to your leg, anyway?”

Silence from Hood, apart from the heavy steps of his boots. After a moment, he said, “Tore some stitches. Nothing recent.”

“You…got hurt and then went ahead and went back out on an injury?” Tristan tilted his head toward Hood in shock. “Is that…is that freaking _normal_ for you?”

This time, Hood actually did laugh, the low sound strangely metallic and eerie through the voice-distorter in his helmet. “I mean, yeah. What, you thought we just took nights off? Bloody hell, how long have you lived in Gotham?”

“I was born here,” Tristan said pointedly, leaving out the part about living in California for twelve years after moving for his dad’s job. They limped a few more yards, and Tristan was fairly certain they had actually passed the end of the block he had initially pointed out. “Hey,” he said after a moment, “I know you said you don’t need help, but like…you gotta tell me how bad it is, okay? I can’t see how bad you’re bleeding.” 

Hood grunted in acknowledgment. “You want an answer in milliliters?” Half a beat later, he said, “Sorry, being an ass. I’m not in danger of bleeding out, but it’s definitely running into my boot.” 

Tristan chewed on that while they walked (well, he walked, Hood limped). He didn’t have much medical experience even if he counted the few times he’d had to be stitched up himself, but he was reasonably certain the fact that Hood was bleeding into his own boot wasn’t a good sign. If any of his students had told him that, he’d have them packed up to the ER in a heartbeat. 

“Okay, I have an idea,” he said slowly. “It’s gonna sound crazy but hear me out. You’re hurt, being stupidly stubborn about it, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone. What if I walked you back to your place? Or wherever it is you go.” There was a half-formed syllable of protest from Hood before Tristan continued, “I _literally_ cannot see where we’re going. I’d have no idea where you live, no way to tell anyone.” 

The vigilante said nothing, hopefully a thoughtful silence while he thought it over. Just when the quiet was starting to get to a point of concern, he said, “How much sight do you have?” 

“Almost none,” Tristan said truthfully. “I have some light perception but that’s about it.”

Red Hood suddenly stopped, and put his gloved hand firmly on Tristan’s shoulder. “You’ll forgive me if I have to check,” he said, and there was a clicking sound. 

Tristan stood perfectly still, angling his head up to where he thought Red Hood was standing. A faint brightness appeared near his face. “A flashlight?” he said, unimpressed. The clicking sound again. “Are you satisfied?” 

“Yeah.” Hood relaxed his grip on Tristan’s arm, then slid his arm up over his shoulders again. “Sorry. Just had to check.”

Tristan considered this for a moment as they begin walking again. “Paranoia, or experience?” 

“Maybe a bit of both,” Hood said, a trace of humor lightening his words. Now that he was listening for it, the humor was coming through more obviously. 

“Someone would really fake being blind to get at you?”

“You have no idea,” Hood muttered darkly. 

“So, I wasn’t clear,” Tristan said, not wanting to touch _that_ particular statement, “are we going to your place?”

“How good is your memory?”

Tristan scoffed a bit. “I don’t know if you know this, but comic books aren’t real. I’m not Daredevil. I’m not going to be able to get myself back to your place. I’m not even totally sure of what street we’re on.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Hood sighed. “We’ll go to my place. But not a word about where we are, got it?”

“Roger that.” 

Hood’s place turned out to be less than fifteen minutes away, Hood leaning a little heavier on Tristan as they got closer. Tristan tried to keep up some friendly chatter, but got mostly terse responses. It was to be expected, he supposed. The little he knew about the Red Hood said he was more aggressive, more volatile than the other masked heroes in the city, so the clipped responses were maybe more than Tristan should hope for. But, he also had a leg injury, and that would make anyone a bit coarser than usual. 

“Step here,” Hood grunted. 

Tristan barely registered the warning in time to get his foot up, and clipped his toe slightly on the stair, nearly stumbling. Hood’s arm tightened around his shoulders and steadied him. Tristan muttered a quick thank-you.

“Twelve steps to my apartment. It’s the one on the right.” Red Hood’s voice seemed tighter, and they stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment. Twelve steps wasn’t a lot, but they had been walking for a while on Hood’s leg. It had might as well be Everest. 

“We can do this,” Tristan said, false positivity in his voice.

“I didn’t freaking ask for a pep squad,” Hood ground out. He took a deep, static-y breath that forcibly reminded Tristan of Darth Vader, and they started up the stairs. 

In a subdued voice, Tristan asked, “You’re not worried about neighbors?”

“At 1:40 in the morning? My neighbors are elderly.” Hood fumbled his keys and stooped with a groan to recover them. Finally there was the click of a key in the lock, and the door opened to Red Hood’s apartment.

Tristan knew he should be afraid, or at least marginally concerned, about heading into Hood’s place. Common sense said you didn’t enter a dragon’s lair. _Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly._

By nature, Tristan was a trusting person. Despite living in Gotham for a good portion of his life, hearing about the horrors and the darkness the city nurtured in its shadows, he still believed people were innately good. That was something he had learned to cultivate in himself. He couldn’t expect others to be kind and caring if he wasn’t willing to put that out there himself. _Be the change,_ his mom always told him. It was that thought he held as he walked into Hood’s apartment. 

It had nothing to do with the alcohol that was still pleasantly buzzing in his system. Nothing to do with his slightly morbid curiosity about the infamous Bats. Nope. 

The door closed behind them, and Tristan heard the click of the door being bolted. His heartrate jumped a bit at that, seeing as he was now locked in a room with Red Hood. He took a deep breath to steady himself. This was the man’s own apartment. He probably needed to lock the door to feel safe. It wasn’t like he had lured Tristan here just to kill him, or whatever. 

Red Hood sank down onto a couch with a relieved groan, the cushions wheezing slightly under him. “Do me a favor,” he called.

“Sure.” Tristan hovered by the doorway where he’d been left, unsure of how Hood would react if he started wandering around the apartment.

“I have a first aid kit under the sink in my bathroom, right hand side in a zip-up bag. Could you bring it?”

“Yeah,” Tristan said, relieved he was being asked to be useful. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“There’s a hallway straight in front of you—_goddamn it_—sorry, leg, anyway straight down the hall on the right.” 

Tristan nodded, unfolding his cane to its full length. Thankfully, the floor was clear. Whatever else Hood was, he was no slob. The apartment had a stuffy feel to it, as though it hadn’t been opened in a while. The floor creaked when he walked, evidence of old beams long covered by thin, cheap carpet which squeaked slightly under his shoes. An old heating unit kicked on with a groan, pumping dusty, warm air through a vent in the hallway. Tristan trailed his fingertips along the wall, counting two folding closet doors before he reached the bathroom. The sink was to his right as he went in, and he knelt on cold tile to access the cabinet.

Hood had said the first aid kit was on the right-hand side. Fortunately, the cabinet was fairly empty. He found only a half-empty tube of toothpaste before his hands closed on the hard cloth case of the kit. Hurrying back down the hall, he held out the case. “Here.”

There was a grunt as Hood shifted on the couch and stretched to take the kit from Tristan. “Thanks.”

Tristan paused. “Your voice…did you take your helmet off?” 

“Yeah. It’s my friggin’ apartment.” He grunted again as he moved his leg, unzipping the first aid kit. His voice was a strong baritone, raspy around the edges like the bark of an old oak tree. “Take a seat,” he said. “There’s a chair across the room from me, on your left side.” 

Tristan swept his cane along the floor in the approximate area Hood had indicated until it knocked against the chair leg, and he cautiously sat, perching on the edge of the armchair. He drummed his fingers against his knee as Hood worked. There was a strange ripping sound, like scissors gliding along wrapping paper, and he realized Hood must be cutting his pants to get to his injury. “Any way I can help?” Tristan asked, feeling slightly helpless. 

“No. Fuck, this is worse than I thought.” Hood sighed. “Gotta re-stitch all of it. Damn!” He hit the couch cushions in anger. Another sigh, breath let out slowly through clenched teeth with a hiss. 

Almost afraid to speak, to break through the flash of loud anger from Hood, Tristan asked, “You’re stitching yourself up?”

“Yeah,” came the reply, gravelly notes in his voice more evident. “Why, you wanna try?” 

Tristan paused for a second, startled. “I think you’re joking,” he said slowly. “I’m pretty sure you’re joking.” 

A huff of laughter, almost instantly smothered by a hiss of pain. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not _that_ much of a masochist.” 

After a second’s hesitation, Tristan said, “Isn’t there anyone you can—”

“Ask me again if there’s anyone I can call,” Hood growled, voice dangerously low. 

Tristan instantly shut up, squeezing the handle of his cane and wondering if it would be strong enough to use as a melee weapon. Maybe he could get in a good kidney hit, or the face now that Hood’s helmet was off. 

He could sense Red Hood’s gaze on him, the intensity of the other man’s focus, like a bird of prey. Tristan took a few slow, steadying breaths, and concentrated on not making any sudden moves. Hood had been relatively friendly until now, so something he said had struck a nerve. Either that, or Hood himself had struck a nerve while stitching up his own leg. 

Hood seemed to have changed lately, if the media reports were true. Confrontations with him no longer seemed to end in body-bags and mangled limbs. They were still bloody, brutal, even, but people wound up in the ICU, rather than the morgue. Supposedly, he had been seen to be working with Batman and the rest of the masks, even though Tristan had thought Hood was a crime lord. Even his students had taken to gossiping about the Red Hood, and he had heard some of his female sophomores breathlessly refer to him as “thicc” (with two c’s, he had been corrected). The general perception of him seemed to be swaying toward favorable.

But in that room, mere feet from the man and able to feel the intensity of his sudden fury, Tristan was afraid, and cursing himself for getting in this situation in the first place.

The silence was broken when Red Hood sucked in another sharp breath having gone back to stitching his leg. Tristan let out his own breath slowly, working at keeping his body language open and non-threatening. 

“This hurts like a son of a bitch,” Hood said casually a minute later, tone considerably lighter. It was almost as if he was trying to make up for snapping and scaring the hell out of Tristan. 

“Yeah.” Tristan let out a strangled chuckle. “I can only imagine.” He swallowed. “So…this is your apartment?”

“Nope.” There was a grunt as he snipped through a piece of thread. “Safehouse. For situations like this. I wouldn’t bring a stranger to my apartment.” 

“No, no, of course not, that would be idiotic. Which you, clearly, are not.” Tristan drummed his fingers on his jeans, distantly realizing he was tapping out the left-hand harmony to Mozart’s 10th sonata. 

“You can relax, you know,” Hood said in a tone that implied he was raising an eyebrow. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Sure, yeah, no, I know that.”

“Mm-hm. Because you look like you think I’m going to rip your arm off and beat you with it.” Hood sighed and changed position on the couch, zipping up the first aid kit. “Tristan, right?”

“Yeah.” Tristan kept up the drumming on his leg. He had been practicing this piano piece for weeks unsuccessfully; it stood to reason he was able to get the timing right now of all times. “What do I call you? Red? Red Hood? I’ve been calling you Hood in my mind.” 

“Hood’s fine. Do you need a drink as bad as I do? There are beers, in the fridge, in the third—no, second—shelf in the door. It’s a porter.”

“No IPA?” Tristan asked, getting to his feet.

Hood snorted. “IPA is piss-water and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

The beers were exactly where Hood had said they would be, cool and slick in his hand as he pulled out two. In the chill air of the refrigerator, he let himself take a moment to think. Hood had been remarkably easy-going, all things considered. He was stressed, sure, he was injured and worn out, but he was like a dog on a chain. He barked loudly, showed his teeth and growled, but approach him kindly and he backed down. Also like a dog, he had judged Tristan solely based on actions. Too often, people made assumptions about Tristan when they saw the cane, when he was wearing his sunglasses. They saw someone who needed help, or who was to be avoided, or who, somehow, didn’t have the wits of a grapefruit just because his eyes weren’t functional.

Hood hadn’t reacted like that. Sure, Tristan was fully aware he was only here because his blindness meant he was a somewhat reduced security risk, but the same could have been accomplished with a sighted person and a blindfold. Apart from that, he had been remarkably blasé about Tristan’s blindness. He navigated it casually, as if it was as familiar to him as it was to Tristan. It was as if Hood was used to fielding judgment against himself, and was making an effort not to do the same to others. 

Handing the beer to Hood, Tristan dropped back into the threadbare armchair, twisting the lid off his own bottle with a flick of the wrist. There was a soft sound of approval from Hood at the motion. “I was in a frat. I know how to open a beer.” Tristan couldn’t help but smirk a little. 

Hood took a long pull from the beer then sighed in relief. “Thanks, man. I appreciate the help.” 

“Yeah.” Tristan sipped at his drink, debating about if it was wise to add more alcohol to his system now that he was just starting to sober up, but ultimately deciding free beer to calm his nerves was worth it. After all, this might be a typical night for the Red Hood, but it was hardly typical for him. 

“I just thought of something,” he said, the words dragging up apprehension like driftwood at high tide. He spun the bottle between his palms. “I…have no way of getting home. I don’t know where we are. And if I call an Uber, you’ll have to tell me the address. I didn’t think of this before, I swear. I wasn’t thinking, I just…” 

Hood took a slow, deep breath, a long inhale and long exhale. “Didn’t think of it either,” he admitted. He shifted on the couch, leather rustling as he shrugged out of his jacket. He groaned, but it sounded exasperated rather than pained. “I’ll have to drive you. Fucking hell.” There was no anger in the swear this time, more exhaustion at facing another task in what was already a very long night.

“It can wait,” Tristan offered. “I feel like beer and fresh stitches probably don’t lend themselves well to driving. But what do I know. I’m just a teacher, I don’t do this stuff.” He took a gulp of his beer to quash down the nerves that were threatening to rise again. 

“What d’you teach?” 

Tristan was thrown by the normalcy of the question. It was like he’d just struck up a conversation with someone at a bar, not that he was sitting in the quote-unquote _safehouse_ of one of Gotham’s infamous masks, and the most dangerous of them at that. “Uh, I, uh, teach high school history. They’ve got me teaching American history this year, but I’m more of a fan of world history. Though I’m hoping next year they might let me teach AP.”

“Do you like it? Teaching?” There was an odd note in Hood’s voice that Tristan couldn’t quite discern. It was an emotion, of some kind, something he was attempting to squash down like an over-full garbage bag before it seeped out.

“Yeah I really do. The kids are great. You always hear about people complaining about teens, but, I dunno, they’re not that difficult. High school’s a fun time, you know? Anyway, maybe they just like my class because I can’t catch them texting or sleeping, unless they snore.” He gave an awkward laugh.

“Yeah.” Hood’s voice was dead, flat and lacking resonance. It was the voice someone used when it was taking every ounce of self-control not to lash out. Tristan had said something very, very wrong but for the life of him he didn’t know what it was. 

_Back off, change topics._ “So, uh, how’s your leg feeling?”

“Fine.” Slight relief in Hood’s tone. He was glad for the conversation switch. “Not the worst I’ve ever had. I’ll live,” he said dryly.

“Good, yeah, that’s good.” Tristan was babbling and he knew it. It was strange; he hadn’t felt this nervous when he was helping the man home, had him leaning and bleeding on him. Probably a combination of slowly sobering up and of the adrenaline surge caused by Hood’s flash of discordant anger. 

Hood finished his beer in a long pull and dropped the empty bottle on a side-table with a clink. “Think I’m as ready as I’m gonna be. I’ll drive you whenever you’re ready.” 

“I can be ready,” Tristan said, feeling around him for an end-table or coffee table or somewhere to put his half-empty bottle and, not finding one, setting it on the floor. “Sorry. For, you know, making you take me home. That was stupid. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I’m rolling my eyes at you,” said Hood. “I made the decision to let you help. Got it? It’s on me.” 

Hood was still limping as they made their way back down to the parking lot, but not nearly as badly as he had been. “Here,” he says, slapping the hood of a nearby car with a muffled thump. “Passenger side, wait for me to unlock it.” 

There was something strange about that phrasing, and Tristan mulled it over as he waited by the side of the car, listening to Hood struggle with his keys. Or, wait— “This is your car, isn’t it?” Tristan blurted.

“Really? Of all the things to judge me for, you’re worried that I’m stealing a car.” 

“Well…” Tristan shivered a bit in the cold wind, tucking his shoulders up against it. “Are you or aren’t you?”

“I’m borrowing it,” Hood said easily, and the car unlocked with a _snick_. “Oh don’t give me that look. It’s either this or my bike. I’ll leave her a five for gas money.” 

Tristan hesitated for a split second before getting in the “borrowed” car. He turned his head toward Hood as the other man got in the car, hoping he was watching as Tristan slowly, deliberately buckled himself in.

Hood laughed. “You’re a shit, you know that?” The car started backing out of the parking space.

“I have been told.” 

The ride back to his apartment was quiet, but seemed almost comfortable. Judging by the relative lack of stops they made, they were either riding a green wave of traffic lights or just blowing through them, though at 2:30 in the morning there probably wasn’t much traffic left on the road. 

The car drifted slowly to a stop, and Hood shifted into park. “This is you,” he said at last. 

Tristan nodded, unsure of what exactly to say. “Thank you” seemed trite and Hood didn’t seem the type to appreciate social niceties for the sake of them. 

“Hey,” Hood said, startling him out of his thoughts, “what you did tonight was stupid. I don’t want to hear about you doing something like that again. Next time, just—just call the cops, okay? Ask for Jim Gordon.” He exhaled sharply. “But thanks.”

“Yeah okay. But you know, you guys give a lot to this city. Maybe you should let the city give back to you.” Tristan looked away as he said it, knowing it was stupid and pointless thing to say. “So just…you know where my place is now. If you need anything, you can drop by.”

After a beat, Hood said. “Okay.” 

He would never take him up on it. But the offer was made.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Jason’s surprise, the latch on the window was open. It was a third floor apartment, with no fire-escape for potential burglars (Cat or otherwise) to utilize, and was all but inaccessible to anyone but a Bat.   
Still.  
Only a moron would leave a window unlatched in Gotham, and Jason had effing told him that, what, ten days ago? Was it just a lapse in judgement or had the idiot seriously been leaving his window unlocked this whole time?

To Jason’s surprise, the latch on the window was open. It was a third floor apartment, with no fire-escape for potential burglars (Cat or otherwise) to utilize, and was all but inaccessible to anyone but a Bat. 

Still.

Only a moron would leave a window unlatched in Gotham, and Jason had effing told him that, what, ten days ago? Was it just a lapse in judgement or had the idiot seriously been leaving his window unlocked this whole time? 

That gave Jason pause. Because if he had been leaving it open…maybe Jason was getting a little too predictable. And if he was predictable, that meant he was getting attached, and that meant he was getting soft. He shoved that thought down deep, under the layers of smoke scented leather and the rustle of old pages that made up his subconscious. He could deal with it later. He slid open the window.

The apartment inside was dark, but that by itself wasn’t out of the ordinary. It was quiet, though, which was unusual. Typically, there would be some form of music playing, though it was a toss-up as to whether it would be a concerto, the latest indie band of the week, or EDM with heavy bass. Tonight it was silent, and as Jason slipped inside, the barest slither of leather accompanying him, he found himself reaching for his gun. He was too well-trained, too jaded and battle-worn to be afraid, but his pulse quickened, readying him for whatever confrontation awaited. Having died once already, his body was very determined not to do it again, and quickly honed in on any variations from the norm, preparing to fight to protect him.

“Tristan?” he called softly, voice muffled and distorted by the helmet he still wore. He crept down the hall, pistol held low at his thigh. There was a slight sound from the living room ahead of him, and his grip on the gun tightened.

“Hood?” That was Tristan, but he didn’t sound right. His voice was groggy and strained.

Jason strode into the room, raising his gun, half-expecting to see Tristan semi-conscious or bound, at the hands of a criminal or something worse, someone who had traced Tristan back to _him_… 

But there was no one. Just Tristan, lying half curled on the couch, eyes tightly shut. The apartment was dark, even for Tristan, who usually kept on at least one lamp. There was a cylindrical shape on the ground in front of him, and, as Jason removed his helmet and his eyes adjusted to the gloom, it came into focus as a trash can. “Shit, Tris,” he breathed, striding over and flicking on the overhead kitchen light. “Are you okay?”

Tristan hissed and pulled his hands up to cover his eyes. “Did you turn on the light?” he groaned. “Damn it, turn it off!” 

Jason scrambled to obey, shocked. “Sorry,” he said, and meant it. For a brief moment he wondered when the last time was that he had genuinely apologized, but quickly dismissed it. He went over and knelt in front of his friend. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

“Migraine,” came the hissed reply. “Keep your voice down _please_.”

Jason sat back on his heels and winced in sympathy. While he had never experienced migraines growing up, he had had a few since coming back from the dead, particularly as the madness of the Pit was waxing. Just another way he was permanently fucked up. He was familiar with the pounding pain, which at first he had mistaken for a flashback from being hit with a crowbar, with the light and sound sensitivity, the nausea. He softened his rasping voice as much as he could, keeping it to just above a whisper. “Take anything for it?”

There was a pause, and he could see the tight look on Tristan’s face as he tried to manage the pain. Then, he gestured loosely in the general direction of the bathroom, back down the hall. “Naproxen, in the medicine cabinet. Bring me two more.” 

Jason found the pills easily, skimmed over the label, and shook out three, carrying them out to the kitchen with as gentle steps as he could manage with his combat boots. He was somewhat familiar with the layout of Tristan’s cabinets. 

Jason enjoyed being tidy, a holdover from an early life of scarcity coupled with Alfred’s influence, but Tristan was organized by necessity. Jason had caught a glimpse of the chaos that was the other man’s desk, and strongly suspected that Tristan’s seeming organization was actually cleverly disguised laziness: it took less effort to find things if they had a specific spot. 

He filled up a glass with water and took it and the pills over to Tristan. He waited until the pills were swallowed before asking in a hushed tone, “How long’s this been going on?” 

Tristan, who had pushed himself into a half-seated, half-slumped position to take the painkillers, shoved the palm of his hand hard above his left eyebrow, as though the pressure there might alleviate some of the elastic pounding. “Started this morning,” he said, his voice equally soft. “Took a half day.” 

“You try to sleep it off?” 

The look on Tristan’s face would have been pure disdain, if he didn’t also look like he might have been about to barf back up the pills. “That’s what I was doing when you barged in here.” 

Jason was about to protest, that despite the fact he was now bigger than Batman (suck it, Bruce) he didn’t _barge in_ anywhere, but another look at Tristan and he decided that arguing with a man with a migraine was crossing a line, even for him. 

So he sat, an ankle over his knee, and waited. 

Waiting was a dangerous game, for him. It was something he had become skilled at early on, used to waiting for his mother to come home, waiting for her to wake up and spend time with him, waiting on his next meal. Later, it translated well to stakeouts. He would pretend he was Aragorn, staying perfectly still as he watched an orc platoon march past the undergrowth, secretly thrilled with the challenge of not being discovered. 

Now… He found that his mind was no longer content with daydreams, the line needle thin to nightmares. He needed to _move_, to keep his blood flowing to stop his broken brain from going back to that place of green fog and hatred, or worse—to the grey silence that had preceded it. 

He shifted in the armchair, cracking his neck and letting himself relax as much as he could. For his friend, he would be still. He let his gaze wander around the darkness of Tris’s apartment. He didn’t have much in the way of wall art, mostly some macramé hangings he’d told Jason an ex-girlfriend had made for him. The strings were braided carefully, if clumsily in places, and wooden beads were strung through in places. Jason shifted his feet on an extremely fluffy carpet, hoping he wasn’t dragging city dirt through the fibers. He wondered how Tristan managed to vacuum this monstrosity, but Tristan had told him he sometimes liked to lie on it while grading papers  
.   
Tristan’s electronic keyboard, the only version of a piano he could fit into his small apartment, sat in the far corner, almost reverential in the way nothing else surrounded it. He had a few music books and sheet music stacked next to it, which he loaned out to music students at times.

Jason examined Tristan’s movie collection next, carefully arranged on the media console. He only had fifteen or so, and each had a label in Braille down the spine of the case. He had a larger digital collection, Jason knew, but the ones he had physical copies of were his favorites. Most of them were dumb comedies with no redeeming value. 

Jason ground his teeth. He had definitely been spending too much time here. He knew about the guy’s digital movie collection, for God’s sake. He had never meant to get attached. But so sue him, sometimes it was nice to have a conversation with someone who called him “Hood” like it wasn’t another name for the devil, like it wasn’t a nom de guerre written in red to separate him from his former family. Sometimes he wanted to talk to someone who didn’t have the weight of disappointment in their voice or who didn’t flinch like he was going for a weapon every time he had to scratch his ass. 

So for Tristan, he waited. He watched Tristan’s face carefully, noting the slight relaxation in his tense forehead as the painkillers started to work. He decided to break the silence. “Sorry about earlier.” Whispering, the rasp in his voice was more noticeable. “I didn’t know you were sensitive to light.” 

Tristan didn’t flinch at the noise, a good sign. “Usually I’m not.” He kept his voice quiet, too. “With really bad ones I get the light sensitivity.” Cautiously, he sat up, moving gingerly.

“Scale of one to ten?” Jason asked, a throwback to his Robin days. Quantify everything.

Tristan considered. “Six.” He winced. “And a half.”

“What was it before?” 

“Nine.” 

Jason’s turn to wince, but in sympathy. 

“Why are you here, Hood?” The question wasn’t accusatory. If anything, it sounded like Tristan was trying to reorient himself. “You’re not hurt…?”

“Nah.” Jason let himself stretch, shoulder popping. “I haven’t gone out yet tonight. It’s been quiet.” 

Tristan nodded slightly, then seemed to regret the motion. “So this is a social call?” 

Jason scowled, noting the very slight smile on Tristan’s face. He was being screwed with. “No, I was just in the neighborhood and failed to hear your shitty music, so I wanted to make sure you hadn’t been murdered.” 

“Not this time. Felt like my head was splitting open, though.”

“Yeah, I know what that’s like.” Jason’s tone was dry. “Do you know what triggered the migraine?” 

“No. Maybe my sleep schedule. Usually I try to go to bed at the same time each night. Haven’t been doing that lately.” 

Jason grunted in acknowledgement, shoulders tensing unthinkingly. He’d probably been the cause of Tristan’s jacked sleep schedule, coming over after or during patrols. It had started with needing a place to patch himself up during a patrol when he was too far away from a safe house. Since then he had dropped in several more times, once under the influence of fear toxin, and tonight…he couldn’t pretend he even had a reason, other than just wanting someone to talk to. But because he was a selfish fuck up and everything in his life fell apart with his touch, his visits had screwed with his friend’s sleep and caused a migraine. 

“I’m just exhausted,” Tristan said, and Jason looked up at him. Even his voice was tired and his shoulders slumped, hazel eyes half-open. 

“I’ll go—” Jason started, rising from the chair.

“I just hate this,” Tristan continued, almost as if he hadn’t heard Jason. “Everything is so much harder. I thought it would get better once I got a job but it hasn’t.”

Jason eased back into the chair. “What’s harder?”

“Everything. It was so hard to just get through the morning with this headache. And then when I decided to go home, I had to totally reorganize everything. It’s not easy for me to get a sub, you know. My teaching style is a bit different, and I’m so new I don’t have pre-arranged activities.” His voice was stronger now, but there was an undercurrent to it that surprised Jason, but that he recognized all too well: anger. He had never seen Tristan angry before.

“Had to call an Uber to get back to my place,” he went on, frowning. He probably would have been pacing if not for the lingering dregs of the migraine. His hands had curled into loose fists.   
“Because I didn’t know the bus schedule at noon and like hell was I going to sit on a noisy bus with a migraine, and I couldn’t just ask a coworker to leave school to drive me home in the middle of the day because my freaking head’s splitting open. 

“_Everything_ takes more effort for me. I was trying to look up some more migraine remedies when the meds weren’t working, and guess what? The website wasn’t accessible for me. Just like half of the sites out there. Making a lesson plan takes twice as long, did you know that? Because the sites aren’t accessible because that’s _so_ hard to do. And, everything my kids do has to be on the computer, no worksheets. You’d think that’d be a good thing, but with a classroom full of teenagers and no way to see their screens I have no clue if they’re actually paying attention to me or not. I feel like I’m not in control of my own _classroom_.” 

He took a deep breath and shoved his face into his hands, grinding his palms into his eyes. “I’m just so tired,” he whispered. His whole body language was slumped, defeated, utterly exhausted.   
Jason was still. He had never heard Tristan talk like this before, and the other man had never unloaded all of his stress on Jason like this. Actually, Jason was hardly ever the person someone else vented to, maybe because they worried about his anger exploding in response. 

And he was angry, he realized, angry that the world had conspired to hurt and frustrate and shut out someone like Tristan, who had given kindness to the freaking Red Hood. And he was angry there was nothing he could do to make it better. 

“That’s extremely shitty,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “I can’t begin to understand what all of that is like for you, and I’m not going to say it’s okay when it obviously isn’t. It’s shitty and it fucking sucks and you deserve to feel like that.” Tristan raised his head slightly, surprised. 

“You do,” Jason went on. If there was one thing he understood better than anyone, it was anger. He knew that it was not something you could just squash down or subsume just because someone told you to be over it. “It’s not fair and you’re allowed to complain and don’t,” he said sharply when Tristan opened his mouth, “apologize for it. Don’t you fucking apologize that things are awful and no one can fix it. Capiche?” 

“Yeah.” His voice sounded tight and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I…thanks.”

“Now that said,” Jason continued, and god did he sound like Bruce right now, what was wrong with him, “you’re exhausted and you’re dealing with a migraine and that’s probably making everything a lot worse than it normally would be. When was the last time you ate?” 

“Before lunch…dad.” There was a very small smile on Tristan’s face, and honestly if he hadn’t been down on the couch for a migraine Jason very well might have socked him for that one. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll fix you something. Don’t get used to it.” Heading to the kitchen, and realizing he knew where everything was stored, he had to be honest with himself: he was definitely attached. Definitely going soft.

And maybe…that wasn’t so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about the ending. I literally wrote this...almost a year ago?? But I stopped on the second to last paragraph and for the life of me could not figure out where I wanted it to go. I just banged something out this afternoon, but I'm still not super satisfied with it.
> 
> As always, any feedback or constructive criticism is appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bad habit of inserting OCs where they don't necessarily belong, so thank you for humoring me with this drabble. This was not necessarily supposed to be shippy; I don't personally like to write ships (personal preference) and the thought was to give Jason a stable friend outside the Batfam. However, if you like this pairing and want to think of it as a ship, please do! Also, I am not blind nor do I have low vision, so if there are any inaccuracies in this portrayal, please don't hesitate to correct me. 
> 
> ....small confession: I have never read Batman comics. My knowledge comes from animated shows and movies, as well as copious amounts of fanfics. Hopefully this is not horrifically OOC.


End file.
